A Conversation
by alaskalane
Summary: Trixie decides the time is right for her to ask Patsy. They discuss for the first time their lives since the canon events of 4.08, realising somewhat that it is better to talk than to suffer alone and in silence.


It was a rare night. Neither Patsy nor Trixie were on call, or out delivering babies; instead, both of them were lying in bed in their shared room, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

It was silent. It had been quite silent between the two of them for a while, since Delia's accident damaged Patsy's ability to exist normally, and since Trixie realised she needed alcohol to exist normally, it was as though they had very little to share with one another. Of course they had noticed the change in one another: Patsy found it hard to go through a day without crying and Trixie tried to pretend she hadn't seen to save Patsy's embarrassment, and Trixie had withdrawn so completely into herself that she was unrecognisable to the girl Patsy had first met. They had been friends, before everything had happened, but never the kind of friends who offloaded their feelings onto one another, they were almost too similar for their own good: Patsy had always had Delia to talk to if she felt down or upset, and Trixie had Famous Grouse to help her forget she even had feelings. They had the kind of friendship built more on mutual respect and admiration, rather than kindness and caring, and up until now, it had never seemed to matter. Not before either of them were alone.

Trixie glanced over to Patsy, checking if she was asleep, before rolling out of bed and padding quietly over to the windowsill where she kept her liquor. She knew Sister Mary Cynthia had asked Patsy to report on her current drinking habits. While she didn't think Patsy cared that much, she held Cynthia in high enough esteem to attempt to prevent her from finding out. She heard Patsy sigh as she picked up a bottle of scotch and rushed back to her own bed for fear of getting caught. It was a good thing she didn't bother with a glass anymore.

Patsy listened for a while, listened to the sound of the liquid sloshing around inside Trixie's bottle and the sound of her cigarette burning, before letting out a long sigh.

Trixie looked over at Patsy, lying unnaturally still, and felt the liquor compelling her to ask Patsy a question. A fairly important question, and one that had been bubbling up in her subconscious for a few months now. It was the first time since the accident that they had been alone together in their bedroom: it is always easier to relate to one another in the dark, she reasoned, and if Patsy doesn't want to talk to me, she can pretend to be asleep. The time was right.

"You loved her, didn't you?"

Patsy stiffened. "You're drunk, aren't you?" she replied coldly, barely registering Trixie's small gasp of hurt at the accusation, such was her own great misery. After a beat, she said, "I don't want to discuss it."

"You don't have to discuss it if you don't want to, Patsy. You've as good as answered me," Trixie paused. "I just want you to know that I'm terribly sorry, for you, having to carry the pain all by yourself. I know nobody understands, and I don't care that you're…you know…I just – you're my friend…you can talk to me, if you want." She took a long drag of her cigarette and noticed that her hands were shaking, again: she drank a little more, cursing the fact that the tremors were so difficult to hide. It was a vicious cycle. When she wasn't drinking, she was shaking, anxious, nauseous, flushed, and confused. The only way to prevent this was by having a drink. She frowned as she realised the bottle was empty.

Patsy was silent for a little while, unmoving. She lay in disbelief, unable to quite comprehend the reality of the conversation. "I – how did you _know_?" she blurted out, finally, her voice breaking. "How did you know?" she said again, quieter this time, turning to look at Trixie with wide, glowing eyes.

"I find the question more to be…how does anyone _not_ know?"

"Trixie…"

"To start with…you're not quite as coy in your leanings as you think you are. I noticed a few times, you staring at Delia, and at the models in my _Vogue_ magazine…Second, I know you'll tell me it's not the be all and end all, but I couldn't help but noticing that you really do have no interest in men whatsoever! Not in the two years I've known you have you ever stepped out with a man. And you're attractive and eligible, and I concluded that it couldn't be possible for both you _and_ Cynthia to want to become nuns…especially since you like a smoke and – a – a drink…And third, I saw the way you looked at one another, and when you said you were moving in together, it rather sealed the deal in my mind. And the way you sort of…reacted to the case of Mr Amos. It was emotional for all of us, but you seemed particularly affected…" Trixie inhaled deeply, and turned to face Patsy. "I'm sorry, darling. I want you to know –"

"Stop it!" Patsy cried, "Please, stop it!" She was terrified despite herself: she knew that Trixie had given her no reason to be scared, quite the opposite, but she found herself totally unable to deal with the discussion as it progressed. To hear it said out loud was something she was totally unprepared for.

Shocked, Trixie fumbled in her bedside table and produced a full bottle of gin: she took a long drink as Patsy panted, overcome with emotion. She recognised that it was her time to stay quiet and waited for Patsy to speak.

Patsy took a deep breath, attempted to gather herself: "You're not going to...turn me in, or anything, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Trixie said lightly.

Patsy let out a long sigh, mixed with a sob. "Sorry. It's just…hard to stop being scared…"

The gin in Trixie's bottle depleted rapidly. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

"Sorry for what? That I'm queer?" Patsy almost chuckled. "Not as sorry as I am."

"No. I'm not sorry that you're queer and I don't believe you should be either. I'm sorry for what happened. To Delia. Your girlfriend." Trixie spoke brazenly. "It must be terribly hard to carry the weight alone. To not be able to – show everyone how much it hurts."

"She doesn't even remember me!" Patsy wasn't aware that she had started crying, but she felt it now; hot tears pouring down her cheeks. "And now she lives in _Pembrokeshire!_ Bloody _Pembrokeshire!_ "

Trixie made a quiet noise of sympathy and lit up another cigarette.

Patsy continued: "And her mother doesn't even have a telephone, and how am I supposed to write so that she'll remember me, how am I supposed to write about how she used to hold me and how we were going to have a spotless flat of our own, and how I still smell of bleach, without her parents realising that their daughter is a _queer_?" she spoke faster and faster, her words tumbling out. She found herself unable to stop them. "We could've been happy…there are places for people like us, up west, where we could've danced and kissed and nobody would have minded – oh, god! And we were moving in together, you know that?" Patsy looked at Trixie, her face shining with tears.

"I know," Trixie replied in almost a whisper. "I know."

The more Patsy talked, the better she felt. "And she was so brave, in a way that I could never be. I was alright pretending, that we were just good friends, and I was alright in the knowledge that we could never be together – god! – she refused to accept that, and she was so much braver than me…she was – is – such a wonderful person, Trixie. I just wish everyone could have known her before the accident like I knew her. It feels as though I was the only person who ever really knew her, and she me…I'm sorry, I'm talking an awful lot –"

"It's perfectly fine. You can tell me all about her. Your feelings…they're totally – normal – valid, I suppose. You miss her like anyone misses a lover."

It was in the moments Patsy unburdened herself of her emotions that she began to feel less numb. To be _allowed_ to feel, in front of another person, who wouldn't judge her or threaten her or fire her or tell her she was delusional; she realised that this was all she had needed. She wiped her eyes. "I do miss her. I miss her terribly…I suppose I ought to move on, really."

"We're nurses, Patsy…surely, you know that amnesia, a head injury – it's not the end of the world," Trixie said abruptly. "You don't know that she won't come back."

Patsy sniffed and let out a wobbly sigh. "No. But it's rather better for one not to hold out one's hopes where the chances of this hope being dashed are so high."

"Quite," Trixie murmured. Her hands hadn't stopped shaking, to her disappointment. "I know there's probably little I can say to make you feel better. You've just got to –"

"Keep going. I know."

"Well, as long as you know."

Patsy straightened up in bed, rubbing her eyes and focussing on Trixie's bottle of gin. "Any chance of a gulp? My nerves are…rather frayed."

Trixie laughed hollowly. "It's not a lifestyle I seek to propound, really, Patsy."

Wrong-footed, Patsy scratched her head awkwardly. "Just a nip?"

"Oh, go on then…I suppose it has been quite an evening."

Trixie held out the bottle, frowning very slightly. She concentrated hard on stilling her hand, surely she had had enough to drink by now? but it wouldn't work; Patsy took the bottle from her trembling fingers and stared at her friend. Trixie broke their eye-contact almost immediately, but it had happened. Patsy saw for the first time how drawn Trixie's face was, how tired she looked, how thin she had gotten. They were both silent for a few moments as Patsy unscrewed the lid.

"I never really had the pleasure of knowing her well before the accident – tell me, what are Delia's best qualities?" Trixie asked, her voice bright. "Do tell!"

For the third or fourth time in their friendship, Patsy noticed Trixie's habit of eliciting confessions through either frank talk or plain nosiness and then offering little to nothing in return. She realised she knew very little about her roommate, didn't know where she had grown up, how long she had been at Nonnatus, why she had become a nurse. It was her turn, Patsy decided.

She was quiet for a little while, trying to decide what to say. "You're not very well, Trixie," she settled on eventually, instantly sort of regretting it but deciding to push on regardless.

"I'm fine," Trixie said sharply. "This isn't about me, anyway. I'm going to go to sleep. Goodnight –"

"Why do you drink? You're ill," Patsy interrupted hastily, her heartbeat suddenly quickening: she knew she was being sort of outrageous, that Trixie would resent her asking. But it had made her feel so much better to _talk_ , finally, about her feelings, she thought she owed Trixie the same. "I mean –"

"I don't want to discuss it," Trixie cut in, mirroring Patsy's words of earlier. "Goodnight."

"Why?"

"Why _what_?"

"Why do you drink, Trixie?"

"I don't _know_!" Trixie shouted, her voice shrill, her breathing shallow. "I don't _know_."

"Look, I'm sorry! I just – I know you've sort of moved on from denying you ever had a problem…I just wanted you to know I care – and you can tell me. If there's anything to tell…me…" Patsy cringed a little, letting her words tail off. Emotional soliloquys were not her strongpoint. That, she had found, was the hardest part of learning to be a nurse. She had to fundamentally alter the way she dealt with some situations to include sentiments she felt desperately uncomfortable with. "Since you've been so kind and accommodating for me…that's all."

Trixie laughed that same hollow laugh, lighting up another cigarette, considering her response. "What did you inherit from your mother and father?" she asked after a while. She added: "God rest their souls," as an afterthought.

Patsy thought for a moment, then answered: "I think…bravery. And coping. My mother could deal with everything, it seemed. I think…perhaps, a sense of robustness." She paused for a second. "Robustness. What about you?"

"Alcoholism… and fear. And incompetence with men, beyond a certain point, I suppose." Trixie stared over at Patsy, who had to look away. "My mother drank to cope with my father. My father drank to cope with himself, and later to cope with my mother, and her habits of stepping out with other men."

"Oh."

"I suppose that doesn't really answer your question." Trixie smiled wryly. "I suppose I started to drink because I _like_ it. God, I still do, but it's wicked, now." She paused, gathering her blankets around herself. "I can hardly stop shaking in the daytime. It's only a matter of time before they ship me off to _convalesce_ at the Mother House, before they stop me working. I'm sure of it. I'm sure the Sisters know."

"Oh, Trixie…Aren't you trying to get help?"

"I am! Nothing seems to work! I know I need to stop drinking. I know that I shouldn't keep buying spirits, but I don't know what I would do without it. I don't know what I'd do, and I _really_ don't want to find out, not for the moment at least." Trixie felt hot tears spring to her eyes. "Anyway. I also don't want to sit here feeling sorry for myself, because that's unreasonable. It'll get better. Really, it can _only_ get better."

Patsy took a sip of gin herself, and gazed over to her left. "How much did your parents drink?"

"Oh…my mother, not so much. We hardly had enough money to support my father's total alcoholism, let alone hers too…" Trixie laughed bitterly. "She wouldn't drink through the day, certainly, but at night, an awful lot. She would put my father to bed and then sit in the living room, drinking flavoured spirits and looking out the window. She put her makeup on and did her hair up, then she headed out to town…she told me once to always see what drink a man buys you before sleeping with him." Trixie giggled. "Not that you'd care about that! But she said to always go on three dates, and make sure one date was to a bar, and ask him to choose you a drink, and one date to a dance, because if a man's not a very good dancer, he won't be very good in bed…And my father…he drank constantly, really. If he didn't he would sort of…see things, or get angry. He saw things and got angry anyway, but it was always less so if one of my brothers had picked up a bottle of scotch for him on their way home from school. That was always better."

Patsy coughed. "I see." She tried a brief smile, and put the bottle of gin on the floor. It felt wrong, handing a spirit to an alcoholic.

"I really don't suppose I've answered your question..." Trixie said again, composing herself. She looked at the bottle between their beds. "I just don't think I have an answer. Perhaps that's the problem."

"That's quite alright. You don't have to give me one." Patsy had a lot of questions and desired a lot of answers. But she sensed the conversation drawing to a close, and thought: there are many questions I ask of myself, but I do not know the answers, and Trixie is no different.

"Ours is not to reason why," Trixie said with a sad chuckle, glancing up at the cross hanging in between their beds.

Patsy smiled, sniffed, and wiped her eyes, settling down. "That's a conversation for another night."


End file.
